We Two Boys
by Bon Katze
Summary: Peeta/Cato Oneshot. In which Peeta recollects his time with the careers, and the way he fit so perfectly between the arms of another. Slash, mxm, etc.etc. Peetato, Peeto, whatever you want to call it.


"_We two boys together clinging,_

_One the other never leaving,_

_Up and Down the roads going – North and South excursions making,_

_Power enjoying – elbows stretching – fingers clutching,_

_Arm'd and fearless – eating, drinking, sleeping, loving,_

_No law less than ourselves owning – sailing, soldiering, thieving, threatening,_

_Misers, menials, priests alarming – air breathing, water drinking, on the turf or the sea-beach dancing_

_Cities wrenching, ease scorning, statues mocking, feebleness chasing,_

_Fulfilling our foray."_

_Walt Whitman_

They were not so different, Peeta and Cato.

Perhaps, in stature, he had Peeta beat – certainly, his height, if not his muscles. Where Peeta was stocky, he was not. His muscles were well defined, and as large and swollen as Peeta's, but cut into his skin as into marble. He was like a Grecian statue, with each bump and curve defined as though cut with a diamond thread. So toned were his arms, as large around as Peeta's, but not nearly as soft. He felt like stone that could melt and mold around the baker's body and stay there. He was made of metal, and when they touched, his body would heat under their flame, and he would relax into Peeta's own muscles. The arms of a baker, which could rival his in size, but not in composition, were largely covered in a layer of luxury. His life had been composed of training, and Peeta's of baking. Where each muscle was a statement in its own, Peeta's came together to tell a story. It seems queer, in retrospect, that though they had come from such varying worlds, he was more predisposed to hardship than the tribute from 12. When they lay together, clinging, in the night while the others slept laboriously, they grasped for each other as though each sweep along muscle would be their last. He was thinner, leaner, and longer than Peeta. But he still fit into the fold of Cato's arms and upon his chest in a way that never would have coalesced the other way around. His collarbone, the crook between his neck and shoulders where Peeta's head would find its rest, was carved for the other specifically. He was a work of art; a specimen, belonging in a museum, and Peeta his rightful counterpart. He deserved the recognition and long-lasting memory of victory, not Peeta, not the wretched girl beside him now. Now he will live in martyrdom, if anything at all. It had been all wrong. He was art, and she a huntress, and the other, merely a baker.

But they were alike in their fear, in their trials, and in their love for the other. And in that way, their statures did not much matter.

There were nights, he recalled, that they had spent together, under the relative safety of a thin-walled tent, beneath the covers of a sleeping bag meant for one. The other sleeping bag discarded in the corner lay empty, as alone as Peeta had now come to feel. Cato, his Cato, his strong-willed lover, was gone. Never again would he feel the sting of shallow kisses against his goose-flesh skin. Never again would swollen lips grace his, secrets silenced between them, exhaled through their noses against each other's skin in steaming, freezing breaths. Never would his fingers fit perfectly into the puzzle piece of another. They would rest their clasped hands against their hips, arms laced and each muscle fitting into the others in the way they were made to. Had God made so perfectly these two together and cast them as sin? The others would never understand. Those who watched in comfort, with no worries or cares, who could breathe sighs of relief for each death, each final breath, closer to the end. Even their families could sit at home, and say, with their deaths, "The suffering is over." They would never understand that there was no end to the suffering. Even in death, there was no escape. And so, under this dome, within this arena, Peeta allowed himself this sin.

Cato had come to him in the beginning. He had set his sights upon the flaming girl Peeta had proclaimed his love for. Cato was using him. Peeta knew, but he allowed it. He had always been helpful. And, if, in this final way, he could save her by leading them astray, he would.

He had not expected the feelings. That first night, in their shared tent, with the trust straining, and their eyes locked upon each other in suspicion, he had not seen the lust. He had not seen the way Cato's fingers and toes curled between the thermal fabric of his sleeping bag, had not seen the way Cato worried his lip between his teeth in longing. He had not expected this kiss; nor the way it sizzled against his own as though he had thrown water to a flame. He had not expected it, but he had just as readily accepted it. They had clutched each other in those moments. They were, no doubt, always enemies. But in that moment, in those moments, they were something more as well. They were lovers, however temporarily.

There had been experimentation. Naturally, Cato had dominated him in the way they had always expected. But there was no violence, only love. They came to understand each other, through mutually shared favors and kisses and lips and skin-to-skin contact. It began, in frantically hushed excuses, as a way to keep warm. It was a very thin veil that did not last very long. It was two nights they spent together like this, before they dropped the pretense and accepted their fate. They were hopeless stuck, hopelessly enamored with one another. There was nothing they could do. And so on the third night, Peeta had left.

Had Peeta known then, known the extent of his need for Cato's iron will, he would not have left. But he did. He left and did not look back, and held Katniss the way Cato had once held him. He tried so hard to harbor hatred toward the boy he had clung to so dearly each night since his horror had begun, but in the end, he couldn't. And so when they met for the final time, and Cato held him the, with panic in his eyes, and even though Peeta knew this was not the boy he had come to love, and this was the fear of death talking, not the love, not his love holding him over the edge, he reveled in the feeling of his back to Cato's chest. For just a moment, he had closed his eyes and forgiven Cato. And then it was over.

Cato had plummeted to his doom below, and Peeta willed himself not to look. He tried not to feel when he heard the begging, and was thankful for Katniss' well-placed arrow. And later, when she offered him the berries, he accepted. Not for her, not for his own life, but because when he was gone, he would be with his other half, somewhere safe, where they needn't huddle for warmth, but would anyway, by virtue of love.

He never did meet Cato in that warm place of his dream. For the games ended had, and he was left with Katniss. He loved Katniss, and always had, even since he was a child, and he would do his damndest to protect her, but he would never love her the way he had loved Cato. The love between then would come, with time. Though she did not yet love him back, Peeta knew one day she would, and that her love would sate the hunger within him. But the fire would never extinguish. Katniss was beautiful, but she would never be Cato. Peeta knew she was only a substitution. He had another, one wrought from the same iron as he; one with the strength to carry Peeta in the way he would now carry Katniss. Cato was his true counterpart.

And now he is gone.

_Author's Note:_

_I see the way to achieve some degree of recognition for your work in the depths of the Internet is to begin with fan service. And so I, a humble servant, present respectfully my interpretation of a pairing that, I have come to believe, receives far too little recognition. I appreciate any readers, reviewers, commentators, and antagonizers that grace me with their valued opinions. Thank you for your support, and your help, or, even very merely, your eyes and your attention._

_If you are further interested, I will be, most likely, posting more short stories like the one you have just read, and have also begun an original work of fiction similar to those works of mine that you can find on this website. Please visit my profile for more information._

_None of the characters depicted in this story belong to me, although I have done my best to do justice to them in the way intended by the author. Suzanne Collins is a lovely writer who has told a beautiful story. In no way do I mean to offend anyone involved._


End file.
